I'll Free You Behind Closed Doors
by Spooky Bibi
Summary: Kurt's night takes an unexpected turn once he flees the sight of Blaine and Rachel kissing. Preconceptions are challenged when a secret side of his personality collides with one of Dave's. AU, starts during BIOTA. First person narrative.
1. We Collide

**Warnings:** **Dominance/Submission themes, some light S/M action. Nothing too graphic.**

**This was (very) loosely inspired by some of the pivotal scenes of the movie **_**Secretary**_**. Those of you who have seen it will get the references. If you haven't it doesn't matter, it won't affect your reading.**

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><p>He made one mistake. Just one. He said he'd do <em>anything<em>.

Anything. What a wonderful word, full of possibilities, of opportunities.

Had he formulated this any other way, the idea probably would have never crossed my mind. He did say it though. The idea did cross my mind. And one thing lead to another. Now we're standing here, in the guest bedroom of Rachel's house. He looks a little overwhelmed, understandably. It happened pretty fast for his groggy mind. After he let that fateful word out, I just replied _fine_, grabbed his shirt and dragged him here. I need to take a second to recollect how we got here. There's nothing to savor in retrospect, I just need to make sure it's what I want. And what he needs.

I guess Blaine's responsible. Or maybe Rachel. Whatever, it's not important. So they were making out like there's no tomorrow. In my face. I don't care.

OK, it bothered me.

Fine, I was pissed. Furious, jealous, whatever. So I went to get some air. It was either the night breeze or the Bacardi Breezers. I took the least damaging route and sat on the front steps, taking long, reasonable breaths. Trying to forget the stupid people downstairs. The stupid, stupidity of my life at that precise moment. Dull and dumb and stupid.

He popped out of nowhere a few minutes later, sitting down next to me on Rachel's porch. I should have run, shouted, called for help. The surprise of seeing him here prevented me from doing any of it right away. Then a few seconds of observation informed me that it would be useless. He was no danger to me. He wouldn't move or speak. The stale scent of beer that enveloped him like a cloud reached my nostrils, making me crunch up my nose in disgust. Normally, a drunk Karofsky would be the worst prospect. His slumped shoulders were the last comforting tell. This wasn't Karofsky, it was Dave. Sad, confused, harmless Dave. I'd never seen him but always suspected he existed.

I stayed motionless. Don't wake the sleepwalker they say. I grew restless after a while though, and gripped the wooden steps to push me up. His hand jumped over mine and I stilled while my stomach flipped.

His speech was slurred, of course, but heartfelt. Mostly coherent. "Don't go Hummel. I gotta tell ya.. I tried to-tonight. Tri-ed to try anyway. The rope was all, like, ready and shit, but I couldn't, couldn't put it…"

I stared, agape. He had to be kidding, right. When did it got so bad? I swallowed, tried to find something to say. Like there was anything to say… He continued, still grasping my cold hand with his sweaty one.

"Couldn't go on with myself, with this need. … I-I hate what I did to you. I just had to do it, always had that impulse, ya know? … Of course you don't. It's bullshit. Don't bother." He let me go, wiped his hands on his jeans repeatedly. He seemed clearer, all of a sudden. "I can't change me. But I want you to know that I'd do anything to make up for what I put you through. For whatever it's worth. Anything."

I didn't ponder on that confession right then. I thought it over while we crossed the hallway, climbed the stairs and entered the first unoccupied room I found. It didn't take me more time to figure things out, about us both. We don't just have our sexuality in common. The shadier side of our personalities is alike too. I guessed it when he talked about impulse. It wasn't about sex, it was his need to hurt me. Now whether it's too soon, or wise, to make him confront this right away, well, we'll find out, won't we?

So we're here, in this richly furnished guestroom. The noise of the drunken fiesta going on in the basement is barely audible, certainly dimmed enough to be ignored. The dark and somewhat sensual décor fits our mood perfectly. Mine at least. I let him stand by the door, while I rummage around for whatever contraption I can find. At the bottom of a drawer, my fingers encounter a lost tie, rolled up in a bunch. Perfect.

I pull it out, walk up to the canopy bed, removing my shirt and pants as I go. I link my eyes with his own bewildered ones. Never breaking contact, I circle the mahogany post and bind my hands together. I see him biting his lip when I pull the final knot tight with my teeth. He's starting to get where we're headed, finally.

I'll smash any uncertainties, on both sides. "Give in, Dave." I whisper, smiling. It should be enough, in his weakened state. I break the intense stare, rest my head on the cold post and close my eyes. Waiting. And waiting. Listening to our breathing, mine careful and attentive, his dangerously messy. But he's getting closer, from what I can hear. Soon the warmth of his body invades my surroundings.

His hands twitter on my hips, there a second then gone. Hesitation is an intricate part of everything he really is, so it's obviously here tonight. While it isn't the first time he'll do something of that nature to me, I understand why he needs convincing now. It's the first time I'm asking him to do it.

I get it, his reserve. Accepting this side of your personality is harder than coming out. It's similar though. In both cases, it comes with shame, at first. What makes it different, more arduous than being gay, is the look of others. Most people will accept your sexuality over time. Most people, however, won't comprehend or be OK with the fact that you thrive on pain. Whether it's giving or receiving it.

But why should pain be a bad thing, something you shy away from? Isn't it just another sensation, like warmth or coldness? Heat can both burn and be comforting. Cold can refresh or make you shiver. For me, pain has the same effect. I can sense the intention behind it. If you do it to put me down, belittle me, it does exactly that. When I do it, when I initiate it, it's a whole other story, a much more exciting and energizing one. A part of me always wondered if I would have that same exhilarating experience with someone else working me up, on my terms. How could I pass up that chance to test it then?

In my life, where everything is pristine, protected, perfected, this is what I need. What I want, no, _crave_. The shock of the slap, the reflexive revolt at the vile words he could say. No control or thoughts, pure, raw feelings only. On his end, he needs it too. The reassurance that it doesn't have to be a negative facet of him. The knowledge that the anger can be channeled, concentrated, purified. I can use it to make us both better.

He wants it, now I'm sure. Maybe he doesn't see the big picture but his primal instinct is taking over. Good enough for me. So I stretch my back, and glide my hands further up the pole, hoping that the sight of rolling muscles underneath my thin shirt entices him more. I know my ass is dangerously close to his groin, his scattered breath tells me he notices it too. It turns a switch in him and he speaks for the first time since we got here.

"Pathetic bitch, look at yourself, begging for it. You don't get to make demands like that, you need to be taught a lesson…" He's practically molded against my back and his humid breath darkens the words slurred in my ears.

"You threaten a lot, but you can't walk the walk." I hiss back.

I barely catch his "Oh yeah?" before the first slap lands on my butt cheek, with bruising force. Then another. Then another.

He's not there yet, he's still holding back. His hand slows down before reaching me and when it's not I hear him wince in regret. So I keep pushing him, taunts after taunts leave my lips. I can't help it, I have to bring him out. We both need it.

Soon though, slaps are raining down, alternating on each side of my ass. Gaining speed and strength at each passage, I feel them blur into a buzzing fire.

Within a minute, my heart is pounding in my ears, dulling the sound of Dave's administrations. I'm elated; my head is spinning from the multiple feelings, all too many and too intense to be processed correctly. I give up thinking. I'm just going to relish this. After each contact of his hand on my backside, there's this wonderful tingling heat that spreads up and down my body. It's like an infection of my nerves, tiny peaks of pain bursting in a million places, all over my lower back, my thighs, my waist. I'm flooded, speechless, breathless. Never been this alive, this elevated.

Then it's my turn to make a mistake. All this time I was holding back my moans, gluing my lips together to prevent those cries to get out. One slips out, after a critically enjoyable hit. Except it comes out sounding more like a protestation of hurt than pleasure. That's all it takes to shatter the moment. Worse, it makes him stop, instantly.

The now silent room showcases Dave's ragged, almost hysterical respirations behind me. I feel him step back, his hands retreating from my backside, where they have been resting for a mere second. Like a goodbye.

I hold my breath. Juvenile. Like it's going to preserve the moment. Forget it Kurt, it's over, finished. I can hear Dave's litany, "fuck, fuck, fuck!" he keeps saying under his breath. That's all the confirmation I needed to know that we're done.

My nimble fingers work the knob and I release myself from the tie. I slide my hands down the pole, savouring its smooth, polished texture while the silk garment falls silently to the ground. Strange, delicate ending. I don't want to leave the spot I'm in. This invisible shell that held his true nature and mine both. Yet I have to, so I turn around.

My wrists sting but there's no way I'll rub them in front of him. He's panicked enough as it is. It would only tell him that he went too far and he didn't. I don't need to be comforted.

He does though. As I detail him, it becomes ever so apparent. He's basically shrivelling up more with each passing second. I take a step in his direction and he just moves away, nearer to the door, nearer to an escape route. Fleeing again.

I walks up to him, quickly, firmly. He seems to give up trying to stand up to me. Good, he's learning.

When I reach out for his face, he shuts down. Literally. His eyes close, his hands ball into fists, every part of him seems to switch off, to leave even. I persist anyway and cup his cheek, my fingers digging lightly. I take a second to appreciate the tickly feeling of his stubble against my fingertips. Rough and hardened, yet the skin underneath the hairs is soft and supple. The whole Karofsky paradox showing up.

"Open your eyes and look at me." I order. I let some gentleness coat my words, with a softer tone and my thumb stroking his cheekbone. I know he's ashamed right now. He feels like he's failed himself, like he's devolved. When actually, this was a giant leap forward, toward true self and mutual acceptance.

He obeys me, eyelids lifting carefully. His brown orbs, fixed on the ground, carry so much hurt… It would be impossible to believe that he was the one inflicting pain moments ago.

I can't explain it but his distress is my sole concern. There's no doubt that I could do whatever I want with him. Destroy the last bit of confidence in him with a word. It crosses my mind, fleetingly. The desire for payback is hard to get rid of. But if I'm honest, tonight all I _really_ desire is to relieve him.

"You did good, David." I say. Putting on what I hope is a reassuring smile, I tilt my head, trying hard to capture his gaze. He won't let me. It's enough to bring back a horrible feeling, helplessness. Like concrete invading me, filling me to my extremities, paralyzing me.

I take a deep breath, I can't let it win this one. "Really Dave, it was fine. More than fine." Firm tone, it's got to get through to him. Apparently it does, the wrong way.

Upon hearing me, he immediately snaps and swats my hand away angrily. "Listen carefully Hummel. You better forget whatever happened just now. And if you breathe one word of this…" he growls.

While he's saying threats, his face is begging for permission. I'm too familiar with the paleness, the wide eyes to miss the pleading behind his words. He wishes he didn't have to say that.

I move closer and press my lips against his. Wasting no time, I slip my tongue inside the warm cavern, gently exploring every inch. All protests die down on his part, his tongue slowly joining the dance, both our breaths becoming moans. It lasts a few seconds, but before it gets too much (or not enough), I detach myself, earning once again a whimper.

I contemplate, satisfied, his now much calmer face. I really should remember this trick in the future.

"Don't worry, no one will know. As long as you don't forget."

"What?" he murmurs.

God, I love how dazed he looks right now…

Focus, Kurt. "Don't forget who you are, who I am. Who _we_ are. Who we just were. This is the truest we've ever been, right here, right now. I enjoyed it, so did you. And there's nothing wrong with that." I explain. I take a pause, considering the next step, how to phrase it right. "Consider us even. As fucked up as it sounds. You said you'd do anything I wanted. This is what I wanted."

We stare at each other, my hand slipping languidly away from him. I'm so sure of myself suddenly. Of what is to be done.

"Some others things I want. You stop shoving me around without purpose." I state. He nods, some color spreading on his cheeks. Guilt, showing its ugly face again. Damn it. I continue anyway. "You never, ever try to… whatever you tried earlier, it's not an option. Never. Finally, anytime you feel like you need to be… free, you give me a sign."

He blinks rapidly, obviously surprised. "What about Mr. Ivy-league downstairs?"

I can't help laughing at the reference. It's so…foreign, out of place. Blaine, in this situation? Please.

"Seriously? You think I could show this side of me to Blaine without him freaking out to no ends? No, you're what I need. And, dare I say, you need me as well."

He stares mutely at me, gives me a somber nod and storms out in a flash.

I remain alone, ears ringing from the sound the slammed door made. Alone maybe, but I feel surrounded, whole. He may have run away but he's still with me, probably against his will or his knowledge. I'm the guardian of his true nature, after all. Once he realizes it, this will have only been the beginning.


	2. Take Me Away

**A/N: I wasn't supposed to continue this story but every single person who reviewed the first chapter asked for more so… I'm a people-pleaser and my muse agreed to help (for once), hence this sequel! ****Enjoy!**

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><p>Weeks pass, unabashed. I attend classes, have silly girl nights with Mercedes and Co. Coffee dates and choir practice still happen with Blaine.<p>

Dear Blaine. Isn't he the most constant of all constants. Confident, strong, knowledgeable, as usual. Oblivious, as usual.

I mean, he doesn't have a clue. It's not like I was subtle. He sprang that kiss on me the other day and I kept biting his lip. Never noticed. I know what I told Dave, but it doesn't mean I couldn't try to bring him to this, right? I mean, people can surprise you.

Except Blaine didn't. He just gave me that sickening, sympathetic smile. The one that says "It's okay, you're not that experienced. You'll get better." Dumbass. As if I didn't know what I was doing.

I held back, agreed with deference. It's just too exhausting to fight him on this, or anything else. I can't even call it that. Fighting, for Blaine, is actually polite arguing, sweet even. Ugh.

Had Dave called, texted, whatever, gave me _any_ kind of sign, I wouldn't be in this mess. Stuck with the most polished, sleek, dulling boyfriend imaginable.

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><p>I never conceived I could say something close to that, but thank all that is holy for Santana Lopez. While her goal is self-serving, I'm selfishly glad the road to it serves me as well. Whatever trick she managed to pull off, it got me here, with Dave. For the first time in a month, I feel alive, and happy. Yeah, in that hideous room that Figgins calls his office, surrounded by uncomfortable adults, I'm content.<p>

It doesn't take much more than having Dave in front of me to achieve that. The real deal is a million times better than the memory. He never completely left my mind since that night, always lingering behind any thought. Surging in a stronger manner whenever my attention drifted. Or when I would call upon my recollections from time to time (fine, every hour or so), just to relive parts of the pleasure, as much as possible.

It wasn't much, but it did the job, until the next time we could be together. It's become an automatism by now. Just forcing the ripple to travel back up my spine….

His dark eyes are fixed on the floor. I wish he would just look at me, once. Call me a tease but I got to shake him up. Again. Slowly, I extend my legs, making sure I cross them at the ankles within his field of vision. He glances up a bit, enough to notice my tightly folded hands on my knees. It's a subtle reminder, like an inside joke, one I know he's getting. His present difficulty at getting the apologetic words out is a giveaway.

"Is it acceptable, Mr. Hummel?"

OK, so there was some kind of setup leading to Figgins' question, I'm sure of it. I just completely missed it. I take a pause, bite my lips as if I was thinking about it and nod. Everybody seems to let out a breath of relief. Guess it was the right answer.

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><p>The next Monday, I'm once again a McKinley student and I waste no time once I'm back. Every time I pass him in the hallways, it's a sway of the hips, a discreet pucker of the lips, an eyebrow lift… All the clichés are used mercilessly. Hey, they work, why would I look any further? It's almost cute how bothered he is by my simple techniques. He can barely maintain a casual conversation with Azimio whenever I'm around.<p>

It takes the whole day for my suggestions to bear fruit. After glee practice, I linger voluntarily by my locker. I saw him going into the gym just after class, all that is left is to hope that his workout somewhat lasted as long as our practice…

"Well, if it isn't Miss Teen Ohio runner-up, back from the Prissyland! You wasn't girly enough for them they had to send you back? Or you just want to parade in your hometown?"

The booming voice of Azimio explodes in the hallway. I close my eyes briefly before turning around. Yes, he's right there with the insulting jerk, a mere step behind him. Damp hair, face flushed from exertion or maybe something else, most of all silent. I readjust the strap of my bag and give Dave my best smolderingly stern look. It's the only way I can think of to make him take charge and God knows it isn't much. I must be more expressive than I give myself credit for because it brings him back to life.

"Leave the little diva to me Az. He pissed me off all day, I'll straighten him up." he says, taking a step forward and pushing his friend aside. Our eyes are glued together and once again, flashes invade my consciousness, tingles are starting to spread…

OK, I must have spaced out yet again because next thing I know I'm being shoved into the locker room. I hear some kind of warning coming from Az, the words _probation_ and _don't leave marks_ getting through the heavy door as it closes. Dave shouts "Don't wait up, I'll take my time with him" over his shoulder, his stare never leaving mine. We both hear his disgruntled _A'right!_ followed by silence. Delicious, enveloping silence. I can literally feel the cocoon of our universe building again around us, shielding us. Unleashing us.

I shake his hand off my arm, taking slow steps backwards until I'm flat against the row of lockers. My hands lift naturally, my fingers curl around the top, gripping the cool metal. I grind my hips a few times, an instinctive, devilish smile appearing. Game on.

He blanches at the sight of my offering. He coughs once, almost chokes. "You have no idea what you're trying to wake up, Hummel."

"Do you?" I snap back.

"Yes, I fucking do!" he shouts. Anger seems to rise in him. Good. Then he takes a deep breath, clenching and unclenching repeatedly his fists before crossing his arms. Great, did he have to regain his control so soon?

"Listen, you have to quit it. It takes all of me to keep it at bay, OK?" he continues. His voice is quavering, a definite opening for me.

I take my time, spacing each word. "You're not doing a very good job then."

Instantly, color spreads back on his face, and in his tone. "Fuck Hummel, don't do this! Why aren't you scared? You should be, given what I did to you…"

I lower my arms, push myself away from the locker and walk up to him. This is has an overwhelming flavor of déjà-vu. Here, he lost it once. Could this place somehow hold a key, if not_the_ one? Can it unlock him again?

"You're frightened enough for both of us." I say quietly. Reaching forward, I grab his hands and put them on my hips, holding them in place with my own. "Besides" I continue, "I had a rather reliable preview last month. Nothing to worry me there."

He takes a step back, gliding his hands up to grip my arms. For a second I think he'll shake me like a ragdoll. No, he just grabs them hard. "You're crazy, fucking mad, you know." he declares. He almost spits it. I don't mind, the fire is back in his eyes. It's all I wanted.

I scoff. "Maybe I am. I mean, you never wondered? Why I didn't put much effort into avoiding you? Maybe I wanted to see you, fight with you." My chin lifts up reflexively. "So, yes, I'm crazy. Because I fucking _love_ it when you manhandle me. Like you are now."

It's completely true. His fingers are kneading my arms, rolling my muscle with his thumbs.

"Yes, you're sick, Hummel." Doesn't seem to bother him anymore, since his breath is warming up my neck as he nears it. Next, teeth graze my clavicle and start traveling sideways. The sharp incisors create goose bumps on every inch they pass on. One of his hands tugs solidly at my collar. My neck obliges and cranes away, leaving as much exposed playground as possible. A loud moan later, the rest of him comes into play. While his mouth goes to town on my neck, sucking mercilessly, one of his hands leaves my shirt and grabs my wrist. Through the fog that covers my mind, I manage to guess his meaning and join my arms behind my back, with him quickly encircling them with one giant paw. His other hand has since left my shirt alone and settles on my chin. Settles is probably not the right word to describe it…

He imprisons me. The grip on my face is a vice. I don't even panic, even with so many "normal" reasons to do so. I mean, he's marking me, scarring my skin frenziedly. The steel grip he holds me in is dangerous, to say the least. 2 inches lower and he could choke me. 2 inches higher and I'll suffocate. But I'm not scared, purely excited instead. I know, beyond any doubt, that he'll never go too far. How I know is a mystery. I just can sense his need. The hunger for more control, not necessarily for more danger.

He detaches himself, keeping me shackled. Our faces are millimeters apart, our unsteady breaths mingling. He's contemplating his handiwork with darkened eyes; I stare in return, my pulse quickening at the sight of his bruised, glistening lips. He must have destroyed my complexion to end up in that state. His voice is as intense as his looks when he finally talks again. "You like this? Helpless little Kurt… I could do everything to you and you couldn't stop me."

"…Yes" I get out. It's getting hard to speak, with my throat so dry from arousal it's now a sandpaper tunnel…

He smiles. "Good." His grin widens as he starts marching me backwards in the room. I stumble, blind but trusting. I let him lead, not even glancing around, until my back meets hard tile. He reaches behind me, turning the shower knob and quickly letting me go to step away.

Brutally cold water pours down on me. Within seconds I'm drenched, my pale shirt has turned translucent and my pants have morphed into a sticky second skin. He's leaning against the separating wall, waiting for me to run away surely. Fine, I'll show him…

I stand completely still, well, as still as possible. There are inevitable tremors after a minute, but everything else I can control, I do. My hair is inelegantly splattered, the leaking gel and hairspray is stinging my eyes, who cares? I'll stay under this torrent, staring at him, for all eternity if that's what it takes.

After what must be a minute or two, his smile has faded but I still don't move.

"I mean it Dave." I blurt through shaking lips. "I w-won't b-back down."

He considers my words and through the curtain of icy droplets I see him looking me up and down, attentively. I don't even feel the sting of the shower anymore, and the humiliating potential of my situation is lost on me. My resolve burns brighter than this, he must see it.

His lips move but the ruckus of the shower prevents me from hearing him. A sneaky, painful rivulet ends up in my right eye and for a second I close them both. It's enough for Dave to move around me and turn the water off.

"I said: Fine, you can get out of there." he mutters. He heads for the shelves and tosses me a towel. He gives me just enough time to wipe my face before handing me his cell phone. My numbed hands can barely grasp it. What now? I juggle the device, waiting for instructions. The next words he says shock me to my core.

"Call your boyfriend. Tell him it's over. No explanations." His tone is even, unshakable. I meet his eyes. The questioning must be written plainly on my face because he elaborates. "I won't be the other guy Kurt," looking away immediately after saying it.

I look down too, carefully detailing the scene. My purplish, shivering fingers. The evidence of his power over me. The phone between those ruined fingers. The evidence of my power over him.

Asking me to dump Blaine, it's not just a test of my obedience. It's me, telling him he's all I want. I know it's the case for him. Why shouldn't we stand on equal ground on this?

It takes a second for me to dial, not because I doubt my choice but simply because I have to brace myself, steady myself. I can't sound unsure; he's wobbly enough as it is. The phone only rings once before Blaine picks up.

"Yeah?"

"Blaine, it's me." Good, my voice is strong, for once. "I have to tell you something."

My simple statement unleashes a stream of questions. "Kurt? What is it? You sound weird sweetie. And where are you calling me from? I don't recognize this number…"

"Stop talking!" I let out, exasperated. "We're done, you and I." Silence greets my declaration and I look over to Dave. His jaw, his whole posture actually, is tense, awaiting.

"What! What do you mean it's over? How…" I hear Blaine shouting in my ear. His voice is an octave higher and the shrill sound just irks me further.

"That's all. Goodbye Blaine." A sharp click resonates, as sharp as my farewell, when I shut down both the phone and the Warbler. I should feel bad, not relieved. It can't be helped though. The smile I can't hold back is starting to show…

I hand him his phone back, he takes it without looking at me. He details it for a few seconds, as if he can't believe what I just did with it. Tension is fading fast in this calm; adrenaline is no longer keeping me on point. I start to shiver, my chattering teeth giving me away.

He finally looks up, with serious, quietly concerned eyes. Stupidly, I persist in trying to look fine. Yeah, it's so credible, what with my shaking like a loose leaf and all…

My grin must be quite foolish now. He shakes his head, clearly not buying my act. "Come on Hummel, follow me." he sighs, grabbing my wrist.

He's taking charge, finally. Leading me outside, to my locker, taking my jacket and bag out of it. Of course he knows my combination, like any self-respecting stalker would. We march out of school, our eyes searching around for any remaining students. No one in sight, no one to stop him and his plan, whatever it can be.

Not much is said on the way. He does mumble something when he throws my jacket over my shoulders but I don't quite catch it. And when he drags me, up to his car, he just motions to me to get in. I comply without a word; he wastes no time doing the same.

Yerk, I'm still dripping, my clothes making a sloshing sound as I settle in the leather seat. He certainly doesn't seem to mind. He just drives, focused. It's a good 5 minutes before he talks to me again. Maybe my incessant shimmying has something to do with it. He still surprises me.

"Can you text your dad, come up with a reason not to sleep at home?"

He's glancing sideways, sizing my reaction. Without a doubt, also checking if I'm not too shaken up by my previous "test". Will he ever be sure? I'm fine! With this, with him, with all of it! The one thing I'm not fine with is how for every order, every stand he takes, there has to be an underlying doubt, almost a regret.

I glance at him in turn. My thoughts, returning to his question, bring a renewed flush to my cheeks. "All night?" I murmur expectantly.

The smile my wondering provokes is delightful. He looks back at the road, his hand gripping the wheel tighter while the car accelerates. "Yes Fancy, all night. For what I have in mind, the evening just won't do." An assertive tone. Great.

I lean back, casually fish my phone from my bag and start texting. First, a common excuse to my dad _(study group at M's place to catch up, can I stay over?_), then a request to back me up to Mercedes (_date night in Westerville, if my dad calls I'm at you place, OK?_). The replies, both agreeing, arrive fast, thankfully. I don't think I've ever been more grateful for that rampant addiction to technology everybody suffers from.

Closing my phone and sliding it back in my backpack, I feel Dave's eyes on me again. My newfound freedom gives me an idea. I stretch purposefully, close my eyes. Deep breaths, to make sure my shirt clings to my chest as much as possible.

"Hummel…" I hear Dave's growl but it doesn't make me move, not in the slightest. This teasing is too much fun, so I remain in the same outstretched position.

The roaring of the car suddenly intensifies, and makes my eyes snap open under the fear. My breath shallows. Damn, those buildings are passing us by faster and faster. I look over, to Dave's satisfied smirk. He doesn't have to remove his eyes from the road to know that he has my attention now.

"Quit it, Fancy. Not until I say so." he tells me.

Yes.

Any form of teasing is terminated on the spot. I curl up, twist my head toward the window. Whatever I can to calm myself. The final minutes of the journey are spent in utter silence. I may be boiling inside, shivering on the outside, but I keep it all to myself, like he wants me to.

He gets even more decided once we get to his house (classic two-story, dark windows, eminently quiet, the perfect setup) and we pull into the driveway.

"There's a back door." he says, turning the ignition off. "In 10 minutes, come in through there and turn right in the hallway. My room at the end of it, on the left." His hand rests a second on the dangling keys before pulling them out and shoving them in his pocket. He turn to face me, and his left hand leaves the wheel to reach my hair. I stay still, even mesmerized, while he pushes the damp strands back. An undecipherable expression, not quite softness or care, hovers on his face, therefore I refrain from leaning into the gesture. We stare at each other for a second; he tugs my hair lightly and just exits the car, surprisingly fast.

I watch him enter the house. Lights are turned on successively, informing me of his progress. _10 minutes of this, pfff, more like an eternity_. I count down each second; whisper them under my breath, a song without rhythm for my wait.

At long last it's over and I'm allowed to leave. My feet practically run to the back of the house, my "patience song" becoming a frantic beat as I'm pounding the cement floor and the gravel of the driveway before dying on the cushy grass surrounding the house.

Once inside, my pace slows down. Insidiously, what I waited for happens. Hope, anxiety, excitement and arousal start to fill me, the unmistakable jumble of feelings that he alone can awaken in me.

A fluttering light filters from under his door. It's ajar, I only have to push it slightly to slither in, and I close it as easily, with a thrust of the hips.

He's standing by his bed, still in his school attire. His jacket alone has been taken off. Behind him, on his dresser, a few tall candles are burning, explaining the eerie lighting and warm smell.

Throat shut off, lips sealed, I await my orders. Him, sphinx-like amusement brightening his air, outwardly savors my tense state. His tongue darts out, flicking over his lips. Moistening his directions, pronounced in a stark manner.

"Your clothes, off. Now."

I never divert my attention from his face. My hands move of their own volition to undress me. Meanwhile, my mind is completely taken over by Dave's look. As each piece is shed (with some difficulty, being still wet and naturally skintight), he's staring more intently, following the fall of the fabrics, watching me expose myself more and more.

"Stop." The word is dropped like a bomb, just when I'm hooking my thumbs in the waistband of my boxers.

I tilt my head to the side. Already? I was just getting started! Talk about a letdown…With the magic broken like this, my chills return and I hug myself.

He chuckles and step up to me. "Don't make that face. It's not over, just slowed down." He points to the bed with a movement of the head. "Get over there Fancy, before you freeze to death. I want you to lie down. I'll take care of the cold."

I nod, taking sideways steps until my shin meets the frame of the bed. Sitting down gingerly, settling on the thick comforter, it's all done without removing my eyes from him. I don't know what changed in him, where this tranquil authority has come from. What I do know is that I don't want to miss a second of it.

"Close your eyes. Stay still." He doesn't move until I comply but once I do, I hear him shuffle out of his T-shirt, his jeans being unzipped and finally his steps on the carpeted floor. Then a weight on the mattress tells me he's now kneeling next to me.

A second later, an intense twinge courses through me, originating from a distinct spot on my thigh. God, I want to look so bad, I have to scrunch up my whole face to keep me from doing so. _Not until I say so_ he said. The sensation reappears, first on my stomach, then a bit higher, right below my ribcage. It's not him pinching me, it's not a cut, it's nothing I've felt before. It certainly takes care of my previous shivering state, I'm now burning up. The mystery, coupled with the sharp treatment he's inflicting me, does a marvelously arousing job.

I lift my arms, grab the headboard tightly, voluntarily binding myself to this rack. He wants submissive, fine. Maybe he'll cut me some slack if he sees I won't ask him to stop. I just want to watch.

"Please Dave, "I ask through my teeth, "let me see…" The sparks of pain stop for a second. I insist. "Don't stop, just let me see you…"

His answer comes somewhat strangled. "Okay, you-you can."

Immediately, I look down. Whoa, now I get it. He's leaning over me, a candle in hand. My skin is sprinkled with the wax he's been pouring over me. I look back at his face and a moan automatically leaves my mouth. I want more.

He dips the candle, this time right over my chest. A molting flower appears on my skin, each petal searing me long enough for me to lap up the sensation, not so long as it would leave a mark. Probably. Whatever. Knowing, seeing the source seems to be ramping up the effect…

It goes on for a while, him dropping more and more of the hot torture, me writhing around in return. When he stops, blowing the candle out and dumping it in the trash, I'm downright drenched. My heart is pounding against my chest, I can't quite catch my breath. His hand ventures up again, soothing with each feathery touch. This time, I allow myself to enjoy his strong fingers combing through my hair. They start sliding back down, stopping at each spot where wax has fallen. Each solidified puddle is lifted, one after the other. The cool ambient air offers a contradicting feel on either the burned part of my skin or the intact one.

It turns into a slower moment once IM cleaned up, his fingertips wandering aimlessly on my whole body. Though my breathing returns to normal after a while, my hands don't let go, my desire doesn't fade. I'm still expecting the next event.

The sound of the front door being opened halts Dave's movement. We lock eyes, cautiously listening to what can only be his dad coming back from work. Keys being dropped on a counter, rummaging going on in the fridge.

"Dave?" Paul calls out. A soft knock makes us both jump. "Did you eat? I'm going to call for a pizza, you want some?"

For the love of… Don't come in, don't come in, don't come in… I bite my lip, tasting the sweat that coats my chin. How more surreal can this situation get? The bully and his victim, interrupted mid-game, a game nobody could understand, with the Mr. Karofsky on the other side, with the most trivial questions…

Dave grins back at me, flattens his hands against the fabric of my underwear. "No thanks Dad, I'm not hungry." he says loudly. I muffle a snort, his eyes are certainly saying otherwise. "I'm pretty tired, I think I'm gonna go to bed early." Before the acknowledgement from his father is heard, he starts pulling down my boxers.

I flush with embarrassment when my cock springs free, more so when he starts examining it. I mean, I'm naked in front of a guy for the first time. Regardless of the setup, I can't really ignore the inherent timidity that comes with this. And beyond the shyness, apprehension. It's no longer an intimate encounter, it's a sexual one. Not sure I'm ready for it.

No hesitancy on his part, even if he's as inexperienced as I am. Guess his dominant side helps him be this sure, in this uncharted territory. He grasps me lightly. It's so… different. I had no idea it could feel like this. It's such a little, benign fact, just a hand that isn't mine wrapped around my dick. Yet it possesses amazing, exciting powers, simply because I don't control it. I can't conduct the movements, and it's incredibly exhilarating.

When his hand starts moving up and down, ever so gently, with an innate rhythm apparently, he coaxes any remaining fear away. "Damn Hummel…" he says. His voice, honeyfied with lust, triggers something in me, making me hard, more than I already was. "Do you have any idea how hot you look right now?" he questions.

I smile, my hips rocking in unison with his movements. "_You're_ making me hot." I reply. Fuck, I can barely speak now, I'm panting that much. He's awfully good at this… Granted, our little playtime laid down the groundwork but still… It's a whole new level.

I gasp loudly, my hands gripping the headboard beyond tight when I see, and feel, his tongue snake around my member. Mobile, wet, scaringly hot. Like his mouth that follows, sliding around right after that teasing lick. A fire, all around me, that's what it is.

My God, he's sucking me off. There's no other way to describe it. No pretty words. There's just this pumping action, sloppy and eager. That becomes the only thing I'm aware of.

"Oh fuck, Dave!" I'm almost screaming.

His left hand glides up, messily and covers my mouth. It's clamping me shut but I still manage to free my tongue and run it against his palm. Not to make him remove it, this new restraint is another enhancement. No, I just feel like tasting him. And I do. His scent has translated into a musky, intense flavor on his skin. I detect myself there as well, where my body wash stuck to him after all those caresses.

He stops his wonderful work for a brief second. "No talking, Hummel." He whispers against my skin. The narrow wisp of air, fresh and sharp, makes me tremble thoroughly. "You don't get to make a sound while I work on you, understood? You don't want my dad to hear us, do you? I would have to stop then…"

I shake my head vigorously. Not one word will escape me, no matter what. His hand remains splattered on my face anyway while he latches on my cock again.

It all speeds up after that: my breathing, my pulse, my thoughts. Before I can even make sense of it my eyes close, my consciousness disappears. An explosion courses through every inch of me and I'm melting in his boiling cavern. The internal earthquake subsides, leaving a few delicious aftershocks behind. My eyelids lift slowly and I get to see Dave let go of my softening dick. I almost die when he swallows all proof of my ecstasy and the tip of his tongue sneak out to lick me clean.

His face is crimson, shiny with perspiration. _Sexy_. When he takes his hand of my face, I notice that his other one is still buried in his boxers. A wet spot on his boxers tells me I'm not the only one who went over the edge.

"_So that's what sex is."_ I think idly. A messy business for sure. There's nothing glamorous about the situation but I wouldn't trade this for any romantic setup. Dave, bright-eyed and catching his breath, basking in the glow of post-orgasmic bliss, that's all I could desire.

He slumps besides me, face down in the pillows. After a second or two he twists his head and looks back at me. I'm still looking forward; I'm still binding myself to this bed. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him, untangling his arms, pulling his hand out and wiping it before circling my wrist and untying me. Soreness is suddenly very noticeable. I roll my shoulders a few times to get them to work again. Only then am I able to return his gaze.

Why was I even remotely nervous about this? Did I fear some disgust on his face, something akin to remorse? I do search for it in his eyes, to no avail. There's none of that. Amusement, that I find. Enough of it to make me blush and look away.

"Kurt, come on, look at me." I'm no fool, there is no asking here, just another demand. Which means I have to face him again. And when I do, I'm astonished. He's not amused, at least not anymore. The red on his face is clearly not just attributable to pleasure. I could swear he looks almost… bashful.

"Better." he says. "Kinda weird that I have to tell you to watch…" Scooting closer, he slides one hand to grab my ass and pull me against him. I immediately tense up when our equally clammy skins make contact.

His hand walks up to my nape, slinkily, and brings me closer until our lips meet. For a second it's just that, lips meeting, testing each other, slowly moving against each other. Getting acquainted, even if they already know one another. It's lovely, something completely new in our case. Just when I start yearning for something more fierce, he gives it to me. Fingers digging in my skull, tongue probing suddenly, deep and masterful. It has all the passion I remember from him, the passion that makes mine soar. I respond eagerly, with moans and roaming hands of my own.

He pulls back before we completely lose all breathing capacity. Wearily, I lift my eyelids. His are still closed and he chuckles lightly. There's a hint of wonder in his voice when he speaks again.

"I gotta tell you, if I ever had any doubt about being gay before, there aren't any left now! You were… just… It was fantastic. _You_ were fantastic." He finally opens his eyes, stares for a moment, his fingers playing with the ends of my hair.

It's my turn to laugh. "What? I didn't do anything!"

"You let me do it. I never thought I could. Never thought you'd let me." he says simply.

With only these few words, he makes it go away: the hesitation, me freaking about the unexpected turn of events… He's so… I don't know. All I know is that I have to kiss him again, right then. With my eyes open so I can witness his shut tight, the wrinkles of enjoyment around them. I let him go, just enough to talk against the tender lips. "Like I said, anytime."

His fingers curl around my hair and pull it hard, pull me away. I can almost feel my face turn into a big question mark at the gesture. Although the twist at my scalp is appreciated.

"Every time?" he asks.

My legs slide between his and I tie us together. I reach behind my head, grab his busied fist and make it pull even harder. "You bet."

We both smile but the usual flash of sadness is still clouding his features. Despite the fact that it seems less overwhelming, it's not enough to stop me from trying to make it disappear, for good.

"You deserve this, you know. You can enjoy it."

He lets go of me, which only prompts me to push myself tighter against his chest. "Don't you start reading my thoughts, Hummel. I didn't give you permission." His words are a rumble on my cheek. He doesn't push me away though, which is a good sign.

"I can't _not_ see them. I can't explain why. I just do." I plead. Lifting me head to meet his gaze, I'm pleased to see a much calmer expression. More than calm, there's a softness there. Makes me say it, however too soon, or foolish, it is.

"I… Me too, Dave."

He gets my meaning. No more smile on his face, however the irises still glint, even with the minuscule amount of light in the room. No instant reply to my not-so-subtle declaration, yet I'm quite assured of what it would be. And I'm right.

The grin makes another appearance, bigger than ever, along with one sentence, so Karofsky-like.

"Shut up, Fancy."

**A/N (2): There will actually be an epilogue following this; it all got to be too long to fit into one chapter.**


	3. The Morning After

**A/N: So after months of plot-bunnies and a prolonged escapade in the land of Sebofsky, plus a majorly distracting new fandom, I finally have another chapter. It was supposed to be the epilogue, once again it got out of hand, so expect a few chapters after this one. It's rather short but the next part should be coming soon. I hope some of you still remember this fic!**

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><p>I know a lot about the famous "morning after". I read about it, saw it in movies, etc. The walk of shame, the cutesy synchronized wake-up, tangled up in the sheets, so on and so forth. All the possibilities, I was familiar with them, in theory.<p>

Nothing could have prepared me for the real deal.

Does it count if there has been no sleep? Because Dave's experiments went on and progressed for the rest of the night, as he promised. I'm still gonna count it as a morning after, merely on account that I am not the same now.

When the sun starts infiltrating the bedroom through the blinds, he is still busy at work on me. One hand on my nape, holding me down, in my place. Bent over his desk, bent to his will and to his wild pounding.

I bite more into the soaked tie as a particularly strong push makes me bump against the furniture. Yes, a tie. He had to find something to shut me up, once it had become clear that my will alone wouldn't do. When his dad came inquiring again about the noise, around midnight, it was one scare too many. He fished the piece of clothing from his closet, I eagerly nodded, agreeing to both the suggestion and the memories attached to it.

So my mouth isn't free but my limbs are. It allows for a better freedom of movements, even if for the time being, my arms remain on the laminate surface. He didn't need to ask me to keep them there. Each thrust makes me slide, with skin sticking and chafing more and more. It is just another burning sensation fusing with all the others I feel inside. I know he is counting on that, that's why I keep the uncomfortable position. I bear it gladly.

Suddenly, somewhere in the midst of all the frantic action, his hand glides to my shoulder. I am ripped away from my support and brought flush against his chest. At once, it all becomes too much: the deep trenches his fingers are creating on both my collarbone and my hip, the need and drive underlying his moves, the heavy breathing tickling my ear, the cool film of sweat on us (the only thing still separating our bodies)… I can't hold back any longer.

My cries may be muted but I am sure my body speaks louder than they ever could. My orgasm is an unprecedented earthquake, an internal tsunami that obliterates any thought, any conscience. His aftershock, coming seconds after mine, is just as intense, guessing from his almost painful moans and the impossible depth his hands reaches into my skin.

We stay fused a long time. Coherence comes back to me, slowly and with it, the ability to savor this moment more. I breathe in deeply, and make an inventory of sorts, to better remember this.

_Remember the numb pressure, lingering on your body much longer than his hands do. Remember the overall soreness, unavoidable result of bucking with and against him for such a long time. Remember him slipping out and turning you around with surprising gentleness. Remember the come cooling off on your stomach, dribbling down your thighs. Remember his eyes, his smile, filled with smug satisfaction but also tenderness. Unsettling mix, yet so right, so fitting on him._

I blush under his scrutiny. He doesn't let go of me, or stop staring. Well, I can do this too. Returning stare for stare and holding my ground, I start to fully come back.

He's still panting, so am I. We catch our breath in a similar fashion, eyes roaming each other. Apparently I can't see him enough. Can't detail the ravages of our time together enough. Well, most of it is his doing, so he must have quite the view, what with the consequences of his manhandling written all over my reactive skin. For my part, all I see is contentment, and a spent body. It sates my soul more than I ever imagined it possible.

A door opens, so I hear, then lazy steps in the hallway. My breath hitches in my throat. One glance at his face confirms he's thinking the same thing than me. Neither of us planned any further than the night. His father being up, with me still in the house, was not something we considered.

I try to talk through my gag, my hand reaches for the knot of clothing in my hair. He swats it away and smiles lightly before untying it himself. "Hey, I get to do that. Don't forget your role here." he says softly. I stare at him, watch him remove the tie. His eyes can't quite meet mine, especially when I work my jaw back to its full range of motion. OK, maybe I'm overdoing it. I can't help it, I like the effect it has on him too much already. He's shifting under my assured, satisfied look. Fighting to gain back the control and not quite getting there.

Fingertips grazing, he slides the tie down my neck, my shoulder, the entire length of my arm. Goosebumps trail right behind the soft fabric, I close my eyes and bathe in the sweet sensation, motionless. God, he doesn't even need to speak to make me surrender completely. I'm his, so entirely his.

The feeling disappears and it's so quiet now that I can hear the garment reach the floor. I'm not left alone for long. A breath, ragged and hot, _so hot_, ghosts on my temple, travels to my hairline. It creates a path, an unpredictable one I soon realize, once it lifts away and reappears the other side of my head, near my ear.

Bang. That's the front door being shut, I know it. What it means make my eyes snap back open, immediately getting lost in David's intense hazel stare.

"My dad is in this bicycle club, they ride Saturday mornings. That's why he's leaving so early. He's usually back for breakfast." he explains. I bite my lip and nod my understanding. His face loses some color and he takes a step back. I do as well. I feel it too, and it's overwhelming.

We're alone, the house is ours, yet we're done. For now.

Just hearing him state the schedule of his father's Saturday, it's so… normal. A harsh reminder that while we are blissfully together here, there is a whole world outside. One that will bring us back to reality, every time.

He looks at me, hungrily, steps away nonetheless. _It's really over…_ I think. Magic is gone, broken. Fine. I sigh and look away. I can't look at him. I can't acknowledge that he's right but I must. Back to real life it is. I hate it.

"Where's the bathroom?" I ask timidly. He points to the hall and I leave, fast. Suddenly, I can't wait to get back to mundane, routine things. Like taking a shower, like getting dressed. Strange settings, stranger state of mind but these steps ground me again. When I go back to his room, refreshed and clean, it almost feels like a regular morning after a sleepover. Once I see him, I know that it's not, it will never be. Paradoxical impressions. I couldn't say why, but they make sense to me.

He's cleaned up himself, he's dressed in the same attire I've always seen him. Baggy pants, plaid shirt. This is Karofsky.

His face, calm, close to serene. There is an attractive certainty in his eyes, in the way he acknowledges my presence with a twinkle in his eyes and walks up to me. This is David, my David.

The two of them inhabit the same person. It's clearer now. It's the same thing for us and the world. Neither can disappear or be ignored, they have to find a way to coexist.

I let out a deep breath as his arms engulf me. His whispers, a rumble in my ear, are low and comforting. "I know, Kurt. It sucks. I'll drive you home before he's back but you remember what you said yesterday. Anytime. We'll always have _this_, anytime."

He pulls away and his fingers pinch my neck. "Whenever I want, right?" he asks. The mischievous tone mellows me instantly. I crane my head up, eyes closed, mouth offered and his grip tightens. Delicious.

"Yes. God yes David. If we can't have _all the time_, then yes. Anytime."


	4. Made To Be This Way

**A/N: Chapter 4 at last! Chapter 5 will take more time, it's not really advanced. Please let me know what you think, reviews of any kind always make me write faster!**

**I'm hoping to change your memories of the ending of Born This Way with this chapter... :D**

**Warnings: D/S themes and relationship, marking, self-harm (kind of).**

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><p>Turns out <em>anytime<em> is _quite often_. Never mind the fact that nobody knows. Never mind the sneaking around, the hiding. Almost every day it's a new challenge, fueled by our ever-growing desire.

It begins with subtle steps that I don't even have to initiate anymore. He grabs my hand between classes, pulls me into a secluded closet and covers me in feverish kisses while I stay still. Until he pushes me, with his words or with his hands, to repay him a hundred times over, whenever we have enough time. Then, on the dirty floor, surrounded by the stale and musty scents, I use all my talent on him, until it's his turn to beg for release. It's a simple process: he demands, I comply, and we own each other as a result. It's only the first of many more daring escapades, because having him take the lead spurs me on.

Soon, I'm enticed to push it further. Nothing extravagant. Just wearing a much too tight white T-shirt and rehearsing our Born This Way number until it's drenched. No big deal. I know he's in the auditorium. I saw him earlier with Santana, deep in the shadows, watching. She left when everyone but me was done with rehearsal. He hasn't, I'm sure of it. Why not put on a real show since I have an audience?

I'm amazed at how enjoyable it is. The song is on a loop, my moves are too and I just let it flow. Stretch out, arm up, firm claw. Dazed eyes, dubious smile, chin up. Repeat. I use the whole stage, as well as every extent of my flexibility, for a full hour. I imagined it would take less time. Guess I underestimated the growth of his confidence.

Still, I succeed. He comes marching on the stage, grabs my forearm and pulls me to him. With decisive force he strings me along and brings me right on the edge of the curtain. A perfect spot, safe from possible prying eyes yet out in the open enough to add another layer of intensity.

He stares silently and my throat goes dry. Anticipation. I never know what I set free, I have to wait and see. And go along. The signal is his voice, thick and thrilling.

"It's not true, what that shirt says."

"You're right, David." _Yes_. I knew he'd picked up on that.

"You don't like boys, you like me. Just me."

"Yes David."

"You can't spread lies this way. It's very bad."

I nod slowly. I'm visibly shaking, trepidation so strong that my stomach is flipping at each of his movements. I'm not going to be able to wait much longer. A smile is being repressed as he takes the last step towards me. Now he's so close that his body heat warms me all over. Not for long, as he rips my thin shirt in half in one savage grip and the loose cool air hits my revealed skin.

I'm left with a ridiculous cotton collar and pangs on each side, floating casually around my chest.

"Much better," he mutters. "but still not enough. Get on there." He orders with a head gesture towards the auditorium speakers. I climb on, unsure whether to stand or stay in a crouched position. I stop, on all fours, and look at him over my shoulder. "Stand up." He says. "You're proud of yourself, of that display? Own up to it. Now you're going to do a show for me."

Walking up to the controls, he plays with the buttons, until the song is playing loudly but the lyrics indistinguishable buried under the amped-up bass. "Dance for me Kurt. Just for me."

I nod. Standing up proves to be a challenge, as I'm already flustered and shaky. Suddenly all moves are difficult and I can't figure out what to do. He's not helping me, leaning against the stereo, staring, waiting. Time to do him proud. He's right, I should be doing all of this just for him, and do it well too.

My hands get in play first. I run them languidly on my chest and allow them to linger on the newly created hem of this useless shirt. The shredded fabric is soft and teasing, it inspires me. My hips follow that lead, slide one way and the other in a rhythm of my choosing. Although I know he's approving, the way his tongue is darting out every few seconds to snake on his lips. I try to make it worth his while, get bolder with each pounding verse, bending up and down, my hands becoming more daring and no longer mere guides but teasing leaders. Still, I'm very careful not to come even close to touching the one part I want to the most. He has not said I can.

"That's enough foreplay." he interrupts, standing straight. I stop at once. "Sit down." I do, letting my legs dangle over the edge, fingers fidgeting on my thighs. He details me and I can almost see a plan forming in his head. This is not over.

"Open your pants." I nod and lean back, resting on the both cool and hot grainy surface of the speaker. I quickly unbutton and with one thrust of the hips slide my tight pants down just enough. His effect on me is amazing. He has not touched me, I don't even know where we're going with this and yet my cock is already hard, straining against my boxers. I can't let it free, not yet, but I hope I will soon. Because, while I won't get it without his consent, I need release more than anything at the moment.

"Slide it all down, to your ankles."

I smile coyly and comply. I can feel the speaker on a whole other level then. It was enjoyable before, the edge of metal cooling while the warmer center made for a pleasant, textured playground as I danced. But being almost completely naked on it is fantastic and I shuffle my backside around a little to take it in more. He ends his stare and goes back to the controls, this time setting them up so only the bass is coming through, throbbing and hypnotic, making the surface sizzle and tingle against my skin. It has a buzzing effect, unnerving and amazing. It pulses through the speaker, through me and shots to my groin. I can't wait.

He takes one step and stands right in front of me. When he leans forward, I'm confident he's going to touch me, kiss me, something. He doesn't. He stops an inch over my jutting cock and speaks. "Your hand on your dick. Now."

I reach for it immediately, gripping tight. God, it's so hard, so hot. Already so close, just with words.

"Don't move it. Just circle it. Good."

My response is a mere pant and my compliance is earning me a soft breath on my skin. I want to stay still, as he asked, but my hips betray me and thrust upwards, just once. He stops his breathing. Fuck.

Then again, his punishment surprises me. It's not so bad because he simply pushes my hips back down with his palms on each side of me. _Hold me in place David, yes, like that._

"I didn't say you could fuck yourself, did I?"

"No. I'm sorry." I breathe. The pressure of his hands, of the hard surface against my back when he grounds me down make me snap out if it a little. He chuckles, somewhat scarily. _What's next?_ I wonder.

"Move your hand up once, Kurt. I'll let you jerk off, if you need it so badly. On my terms."

I do as he says, groan at the light yet effective friction my sweaty fingers create on the taunt skin of my dick. "Stop." he says, just as my thumb goes over the tip.

"Down, slowly."

Down my hand goes.

"Up."

"Down."

"Faster."

"Let go."

"Grab it tighter."

"Up."

"Down."

"Stop."

Directions followed meticulously, despite them melting my brain, one order at the time. I'm shaking all over, my hand trembling erratically around my begging cock. "Hands off Kurt." he says and I let go. I have no choice. It does take a violent bite on my tongue to refrain my whimper. No sounds Kurt.

His hands curve on my hipbone. I can feel the nails digging deep and I know I'm going to have violet, crescent-shaped marks there for days. A signature of this new game, I like it. I bite my bottom lip and glue my eyes to his. He can see my gratitude, my frustration, all of me through them.

"God, I can really make you do whatever I want…" he murmurs. The amazement in his voice might soften the mood, but his moves let me know that this game is not over. I'm not to expect sweetness just yet. Left hand still kneading my waist, he makes his right one course higher. It lingers a second on my stomach, fingers flattening over my contracted abdominals (_warm, so warm_). Our eyes didn't stray and now his are so dark and intense I can't breathe.

"Time to rectify the facts." With a firm pressure of his thumbnail, he starts scratching on my skin. A vertical line, a horizontal one right at the bottom of it. Another vertical one, right next to it. I try to look down at his task and after a moment I figure it out: he's spelling **LIKES.** I resume breathing, shallowly, watching him write **DAVE** over my quivering stomach. I'm normally ticklish around that spot but not now. All it does to me is bring a deeper crimson to my cheek and a grunt out every time his nail goes too fast and strong, drawing to the surface minuscule droplets of blood that sting.

He contemplates his work for a bit before speaking again. I'm beyond words myself, in awe. More so when he talks. "That's the real truth. You like me, _Dave_."

"No I…"

His hand jumps to silence me, seals my mouth. "It wasn't a question Kurt, I'm stating a fact. You don't have a say in it."

"_I love you._" I finish mentally.

He lets go, his hand slides down my chin, circles my throat for a second, like a warning. Down again, the pad of his fingertips bumping over the raised and inflamed letters he just wrote. Foolishly, I think this road down my front will end with his hands on my cock when actually they stop on both sides of it. I groan, push my hips forward, throwing caution to the wind. I need him to touch me. He ignores me and starts pinching my stretched skin, occasionally adding a painful twist. Chuckles every time I cry out.

"You're really ripe for it baby. So ripe, in fact, that I might let you indulge."

I stop breathing, perfectly still despite my pounding heart. "You want release little Kurt? You want it?"

I can only whimper a vaguely agreeing response. He has no idea how badly I need it.

"Show me how much you want it. Jerk yourself off ." he says with a smile in his voice.

Thank God. I resume my strokes at once. My cock has not softened in the slightest; rather it has the rigidity and temperature of a marking iron.

"Faster."

I let out a high-pitched moan. So close. He leans up, hovering over me. His warm breath washes over me as he comes closer to my face. Again I can't help staring deep into his eyes.

"Show me how you come, Kurt."

A whine is all I can utter, what with the power of his words striking my mind hard and knocking out all sense. What remains is the tightening in my belly, my balls drawing up rapidly. I'm going to obey him, so soon now…

"Come, now."

Oh God. A simple brush of the hand on the tip, just when I feel his thumbs planting themselves deep in my flesh, and I show him. Thick milky ropes spurt, coat my fingers. It almost burns as they dribble along the back of my hand. I can't stop, still pump away in the same rhythm he imposed me. I tremble incoherently, even less comprehensible words and sounds escape me for what seems like a full minute until I'm destroyed. I finally let go with a finite sigh and turn to jelly. Splayed out, spent, finished.

Or so I thought. I'm done, slowly recuperating, but he's still holding me down, varying the pressure on my skin. Breathing fast, while my own respiration is decreasing in speed. I keep on staring. He doesn't.

Instead, his eyes roam; take me in, in this offered, surrendered state. "You can talk now Kurt. Tell me what you want." Words dropped like breadcrumbs, leading me on again.

The offer is too tempting. I was done seconds ago but this is waking me up. A second round, or something else entirely, it's a prospect I savor with eyes closed, to picture it more clearly. What my mind comes up with is indescribable and as a result I can just ramble. "Touch me. Again. Please. Hurt me, make me feel, again. Please. Or just… Let me touch _you_."

Yes, retribution. I know I can make him unravel like he did with me.

A soft laugh. I stretch, breathe in deeply and open my eyes. He's smiling, mischievous and I tingle all over. Such promises…

"Next time." he breathes out against my cheek before pulling away.

And just like that, he exits, swiftly, pausing only to switch the music off, and I'm left bewildered. How could he ever find the strength to not indulge? I was there, ready, he wanted it too. His arousal was glaringly obvious and yet he didn't do anything.

It hits me then: his satisfaction will come from denying me. Easily, he has taken over, grasped the power and kept the ball in his court. This is new, and exciting, a different kind of pain for me and a surprising display on his part. I didn't expect him to become the catalyst, not so soon at least.

"Kurt? Are you done?" The voice echoes through the deserted auditorium, accompanied by the sound of feet tumbling down the center alley.

Finn. Oh my God, he was still waiting for me? Just when I was counting on him getting tired of it, he has to be the patient brother? Shit.

"Ku-urt! Dude, we're going to be late for dinner!" I can hear him getting closer and the inquisitive tone tells me there's no chance he'll go away.

To say that I scramble to make myself presentable again would be an understatement. It's a stroke of luck that I have left my coat backstage. It allows, after having frantically put my pants back on, to simply button it over the ruins of my shirt. It's uncomfortable but it's the best I can do in such on such short notice. The come smeared on my hands is dealt with the help of the stage curtains. I allow myself a shameless smirk at the notion that I stained this room, in more ways than one, just before ruffling my hair back into its expected Gaga style. Done at last and in the nick of time too. Finn is already jumping the steps leading to the stage.

"Hey buddy." he greets me. "Can we get a move on? It's almost 6 and Burt already texted me twice. Also why aren't you picking up your phone?" He stops as he nears me, brows furrowing. I must not look as composed as I hoped. "Whoa dude, you're all red and sweaty, you all right?"

_Take a deep breath Kurt, you can do this._ "Sure. I guess I just rehearsed too vigorously." I said with a vague hand gesture.

He nods. "Right. I don't get why you wanted to practice, _again_. I mean, Schuester is gonna change his mind like 10 times and end up not using this number at all."

"True. But I'm a perfectionist and there's also something to be said for a good work out." I reply with a breathless laugh. I have to turn away quickly, using the pretense that I'm in a hurry to grab my things to hide my deepening blush. I can't believe I'm making a private joke in front of Finn. Oh well, it wouldn't be the most inappropriate thing I've done tonight.

My eyes stray up and I catch sight of the stains on the curtains, right above my book bag.I grab the strap with reluctance. I can't deal with this contrast, can't deal with how it brings me down either. Will it always be like this, intimate highs dampened by regular life?

"All ready, let's go." I say as I turn around, leading the way and Finn fall in behind me, no questions asked. I appreciate his instant obedience, especially the silent part of it. There's much to mull over, this is helping.

It's a quiet ride back as well, during which I pretend to be exhausted beyond conversation. Apart from a few random comments, Finn leaves me alone. He keeps looking my way though, and the underlying questions are weighing on me. I'm not singing along to the music, I'm not commenting on his driving. Even in worst state of fatigue I would still do those things. At the moment I can't force myself. With so many emotions mixed up, I can't straighten them out enough to be "normal". So I avoid making eye contact and flee downstairs as soon as we arrive.

…

I start to relax only once I'm back in my room. With the door closed and satisfying privacy all around, my thoughts are finally unchained. Here I can revisit the events at my leisure, push the worries aside and bring forth the pleasure, once more.

It has always been a talent of mine. When I concentrate hard enough, I can make every memory into a tangible sensation again. God knows what I just experienced is worth it. I shed my coat with a quick shrug of the shoulders and drop it on a chair on my way to my bathroom. I want to see his words again.

My reflection in the vanity mirror floors me. Here I am, changed, flushed, eyes brighter than ever. It's a transformation, a fantastic one.

I let my fingers dance lazily down my chest, flickering them over the _LIKE_. It causes a knowing smile to appear, until the tell-tale sound of Finn hurtling down to our room brings me back.

"Dinner in 20 minutes little brother, better get a move on!" he yells through the door.

"OK, I'm just freshening up." I reply. My hand stop but my eyes don't move. "_I hate this_." I mouth at my double. I'm finally about to appreciate the fallout and real life is back. Everything is dimmed, all of a sudden.

How am I supposed to conciliate this? Should I just bury my new-found complete self, because it clashes with my current life? I used to show everything, be open about myself. Not with this, never with this, even when it was just my own impulses and their satisfaction. It wasn't that important then. Now that it's shared and reaching new heights, it's even more complicated.

It was hard enough to come out, it's still hard to deal with the bullying, the insults and the general harassment. If anybody was to find out about David and me, not just that we're together but the dynamic between us, it would destroy everything. I can't lie and I refuse to hide but the step is too big, almost impossible.

As I'm staring at the bright scars on my torso, the solution appears to me. It's a matter of how you look at it. Maybe I have to hide it all. Also, maybe it's a good thing. That way it stays untarnished, impossible to judge or denigrate. How it'll compare to the other realms of my life can be a downer but can also make me cherish what we have more.

That's it. It shall be just mine and David's. Our own fucked up, perfect world, that can be rivaled with.

David's.

That gives me an idea.

I touch the letters lightly again. I like what they are, what they mean, but they're not enough. I look around, pick up my comb before setting it down immediately. Not sharp, this won't do. My styling scissors come into view. Yes, perfect. With a sure hand, I grab them, guide the pointy end to the right side of my sternum and start tracing.

The filaments of pain are acute and clear, reach deep and course on every level, physical and psychological. I never knew complete satisfaction like this. To have our game enrich my own old techniques is a surprising and lovely effect. I trace every letter carefully and methodically. The finished product is quite neat, thin and almost discreet compared to his ragged writing. I still prefer his work, however I might say seeing them combined is the best.

LIKE

**BEING**

DAVE**'S**

Finally, a complete truth.

I giggle because there's nothing else I can do. The low throbbing of the cuts, synchronized to my pulse, is like music in my skin. We both marked me. It's stamped, definitive. I've conceded and given him the reins. Mixed with the realization that I can deal with our secret, it's the most liberated I've ever felt. I've lost control, willfully. It's contradictory only in appearance.

I finally look away, grab the nearest sweater and put it on. Covering me doesn't feel so bad. It's temporary and soon enough David, not just me, will get to see that phrase.

I've surrendered and I can't wait to show him.


	5. Crowned

A/N: My muse and I are sorry that it took me more than a YEAR to get this chapter out. :S

Warnings: BDSM themes, sexual content, light bondage, very slight dubcon/reluctance.

* * *

><p>Another week of infuriating reality, full of obstacles, follows. For most people classes, basic socialization and conversations, homework, and afterschool practice are not hindrances, but they are to me. My normal reality, clashing with the one I have with David. I might have accepted this duality but I never said I'd be patient regarding it, especially on those days when everything seems to conspire to keep us apart. Except one thing, a relief, an opportunity.<p>

I'm so thankful for the Bully Whips program. It really is the perfect cover for us. How else could I be walking around school all day next to David without raising a million questions? God knows I need all the contact I can get. We haven't been able to sneak in any sort of time together since our auditorium session.

I itch for more.

Literally. My skin is tingling, has been for days, and as he's escorting me to my French class, so close and yet still so far, I realize I can't wait any longer. I stare forward but talk to him softly, knowing the mixed noises of the hallway make it impossible for anybody else to hear.

"I have a surprise for you."

His eyes dart to me and I smile. _Got you._

"Really?"

"Yes, _really_."

I feel him edging closer to me. So a vague proposal is enough to nab his interest, that's very, very good to know. It spurs a delicious chill up my neck. Mmm, teasing him will never get old, especially when I can guess where it'll inevitably lead us.

He doesn't change his walk but his arm brushes more purposefully against mine. I try to keep my composure, keep the same beat in my steps, same hold on my books. Yet I want him to make me sway and falter. Please Dave, change this drab, ordinary day, turn it into another memorable moment.

"Well, give it to me now. No time like the present." His demand is clear and firm.

I blush and my words stumble out in a fast mess. "It's not exactly something I can hand over to you in the hallway." Suddenly I'm very aware of my scars, of the way my undershirt scrapes against the mostly healed skin. I've been wanting to show it all to him for days, see the effect it would have on him.

Except I look around me now, take the scene in. The jocks joking around, Rachel, in another astoundingly outdated outfit, talking with animation to a trapped Sam. We're surrounded by normalcy. Our universe seems so far away and I'm starting to doubt if we can recreate it here. OK, so maybe it was a miscalculation to bring it up right now. His eyes keep going back to me, burning, pressing. It might be too late; maybe I don't have a say in this anymore.

I shouldn't complain. This is what I wanted, him dictating my actions, us in movement again, but switching from my necessary parade to my true nature is proving more difficult than expected in this public setting.

Next thing I know, I'm being directed, quite decisively, into the choir room. I don't even try to protest as he uses his whole body to lead me there. It's quick and subtle, thankfully. It doesn't stop when he closes the door behind us, he keeps pushing until we're sliding into the props closet.

Trapped with him, alone. A lifetime ago, I would have fainted from the fear. Today I feel joy surge through me. Giving him the reins has led us to another moment that was waiting to happen. I'm appreciating his imagination. Just when I think we're too much in the open and that despite my desire we can't be _us_, he figures out a way.

Tiny specks of dust float around us, pushed around by our breathing and barely distinguishable in the dim lighting filtering from under the door. Still, we can see plenty enough.

His hands want to touch, that much is sure. They're fluttering around, gripping and releasing the hem of his shirt. Makes me want to reach for them, but instead I start playing with the top button of my vest.

He clears his throat. The sound, even muffled, makes me jump a little. "This private enough for you Kurt?" he asks, and I nod. There's a waiting, a wanting in his eyes. I start undoing my clothes with a trembling hand. Will what I show him meet his expectations? I'm not sure. Anyway, it's too late to go back.

"Yes, it is." I say softly. "It has to be, because my surprise is to be shown, not given. And to you only."

With these words I part my vest, shake it off my shoulders and remove my thin undershirt. Consequently I start panicking. I can't help it. My heart speeds up and my palms start to sweat. It's a different kind of exposure, a different kind of gift. By showing him those words etched on me, I'm more naked right now than I've ever been. I try to remember that he's the only one who can get it, who can accept this, accept me. But when he's stoic, mute and simply detailing the words on my skin, it's hard to know if I've made a mistake or not.

"Did you do this before, to yourself?"

There's worry and uncertainty in his voice and he caresses my chest with question. His index stops on his name, making me hiss when he applies a little pressure there. Immediately he retracts it, resuming a pointless pattern as an excuse. I breathe more freely. The implication of his wondering still weighs me down a little and words leave my lips with difficulty.

"I've thought about it. Sometimes, when life wasn't enough, when I needed something strong. You're not the only one with urges."

His face is starting to switch from curiosity to alarm. He stops and his eyes go up to meet mine. Wide with concern, a touch of fear too.

"No, it's not what you imagine. It didn't come from a place of punishment or hurt. It was, it _is_, a way to feel more. But… I never felt as much as I do with you though. It never felt entirely right but it does now, with you. For you."

Barely a whisper but I can see him relax, even if there are still hints of discomfort, in the lines around his mouth.

Am I making any sense? Does he get that I didn't do this to disobey him, out of depression or because he doesn't fulfill me? It was meant as a gift, I'm starting to think it's not perceived as such.

"Good," he notes. "Wouldn't want you to start thinking you can decide what's best. Don't want you to start playing alone either."

The glint is back in his eyes and the pattern he's drawing acquires purpose. Instantly relieved, I sigh and offer him a little smile, mischievous. The shift in mood is visible; his words are that powerful on me. This approval I was hoping for, now voiced out, washes over me and slacks every muscle in my body.

I don't even realize at first that my fingers have joined his, caressing my skin and his fingers indiscriminately. Roll on, slide off, raise a little higher, dip lower, bring both our hands to the waistband of my jeans. It's rhythmic, hypnotic. But it's almost like I'm conducting again and I can't have that.

"Isn't what's written here enough proof that I know this?" It's a murmur but not a vague one. I'm sure about this. "You get to decide David. That's what _I_ choose."

He smiles timidly and leans forward, until his breath is like a playful wisp on the shell of my ear. "Okay, but how far are you willing to go?" he whispers.

A frisson shakes me and translates into my response as well. I'm the first one surprised that I haven't thought about that, not yet. "I-I don't know. I never imagined such a scenario, least of all with you in it. It's just... I used to think it would flow easily, naturally, if it ever came to be."

I pause. No.

I know him, his reserves about this whole situation. I can't appear unsure or else he might back away. _Strength, Kurt_. Always, in this just like in everything else. I pull away just enough to look him directly. Chin up, my eyes as strong as steel. Much better.

"Take it as far as you want," I say. He bites his lip; I reel in a sigh. Again with the hesitance. I don't want him to be cautious, for crying out loud. I don't want anything to hold him back. "In any case, I'll find a way to let you know if it's too much. Although I doubt it'll get there. I trust you David."

It does the trick. In the blink of an eye, his mouth latches on the sensitive spot underneath my ear, sucking with bruising force. I nearly whimper, in fact I do once his teeth start scraping my skin and leave shallow marks along my neck.

Finally, it's back on. I let go and throw my head back. It's delicious, this brisk rasping, the flash of burning on my skin, immediately tempered by a slick and fresh tongue washing over the spot. I'm past words. He doesn't need any, not anymore. He's just a perpetual motion machine that I started.

His hands are intended, confident. A brush of the thumb down my neck, pressing against my pulse, before his fingers stretch and splay on my collarbone, pushing into my skin. It's a dim pain, a prelude. They sink in, make the pressure radiate. Most importantly, they move lower after each push.

My breath hitches in my throat. I love that he can feel it, with his tongue still dancing on my neck, not missing any inhale, any fluttering heartbeat. I know he gets it, because he's more fervent, less careful. I think I can't be pressed harder against the wall, he proves me wrong. His whole body leans into mine as his hands finally reach the waistband of my pants, and start unbuttoning them.

I groan and throw my head back, shivering under his constant touch. Except I crave more than his physical touch, I want his command. "Tell me what I need to do David," I breathe out.

He moves his attention to my belt, fumbling slightly with it before shoving everything down to my knees. "I want my payback," he mutters, tearing his eyes from my waist and exposed sex to meet my stare, with a hunger measuring up to mine.

"Now, jerk me off," he says. He makes a move as to guide my hands. No need, they're eager enough.

Secure, agile, they get rid of the barriers between them and David's cock in seconds. I've been wanting to touch him for too long. I could savor it but I don't want to, not this time at least. It's rushed, the way he wants it and the way my gift spurred him to be.

All I need is a good grip. It's not easy, constricted as we are, but I manage it. I circle his erection tightly, my other hand pushing his pants and underwear further out of the way.

The not-so quiet gasp, the sudden tension squaring his shoulders. That's the concrete evidence of the underlying power I'll never stop to have, even when I give it to him. In between pants of my own, because his hands on me know what they're doing, I smile, breathless and victorious.

It's a win, one more stolen, private moment. It's perfect, intimate. Our breaths mix, I feel his touch, smell him, hear every variation in his voice that mutters nothings on my skin. I'm learning him, every sense registering despite a clouded brain.

He coaxes me with a firm grasp, tries to one-up me, to make me tip over the edge first. I play along, moan obediently, all the while stroking him hard, fast. He's battling the pleasure, yet he asks for more.

I whine when his thumb presses all the way up my dick, makes me shudder strongly in his arms.

My release is seconds away, he's invading me from all sides…

Then the door opens in the distance, yet so close, and my world shuts down. I'm no longer in my fantasy. I'm a stupid teenager about to be caught with his pants down in a closet.

My free hand hesitates between clamping on my mouth, to cut off the way too loud breathing, or hang on Dave's shoulder for support before I crash on the floor.

The intruder walks around, rearranges chairs. I can barely hear the scraping of the metallic legs on linoleum over the thumping sound of my heart in my ears.

And on top of this, Dave's hand is still a piston, pulling me towards my fall.

"Don't stop."

The order falls like hail on me and involuntarily I do stop. Pull away just enough to look him directly and question him with wide and perplexed eyes. Although my hand remains in place by pure conditioned reflex.

He's not kidding. His fingers dig into my flesh, determined. Demanding. His hand on my cock speeds up, strokes with a vicious insistence.

"Do it," he says, directly in my ear.

I keel and keep up with the rhythm too.

"You're crazy," I tell him in as low a whisper as I can make it. The pleasure building up in my core, the rush from his manhandling, they're both making it so hard to keep quiet.

And that's what he likes. The more whimpers I can't silence, the wider his smile, the brighter his eyes and the more febrile his touch.

I bury my head in his shoulder to muffle my cries, keeping them stuck in my throat. I can feel David trembling against me and I know part of it is caused by a satisfied chuckling.

I have no choice. Actually I chose to be helpless. And while the panic is almost killing me, the thrill is also keeping me alive. I'm about to scream, because Dave's hand is so tight, his mouth so torturous on my throat…

His orgasm shocks me, his come covering my hand in a few warm spurts while he gives nothing away, only bites down on my shoulder a little harder.

Thankfully, whoever came in isn't lingering and soon I hear the door open and close. Alone again, at last, I lift my head up and let my heaving pants become more vocal.

"He should have heard us. Should have heard the noises I can get you to make," David whispers hotly on my neck. "Everybody should know that you are mine."

He pulls back and cradles my face, strangely delicate all of sudden, and kisses me fully. More than a simple pressure of his mouth on mine, his lips ravage mine, his tongue is demanding and he breathes as if he's trying to swallow me whole, at once. He smiles as we part, runs his thumb on my lower lip and leaves, tucking himself back in his pants on his way out, without any concern given to the mess.

He doesn't explain himself, he drops these bewildering words and leaves me alone in the closet, messed up, aroused to a painful level, trembling breaths and all. I don't even understand my own feelings, because I'm not mad, or frustrated.

Can someone be satisfied without release? Can confusion be a good state of mind?

Because I can't decide, I can only catch my breath slowly, wipe my hand like I can and rehash what happened. I'm smiling, stomach in knots and both pleasure and anxiety in my head. Some of his words are more on the forefront of my thoughts, impossible to reconcile with the David I know.

_Everybody should know that you are mine_.

Really?

* * *

><p>It's just as strange a couple of days later, when he sneaks me inside his house again. Summons me actually, with a phone call that tolerates no refusal, just as I like it. But how he behaves…<p>

The front door is still wide open yet he's already got me half-undressed, ordering me to shed my clothes on the spot. I comply, a glacial thrill running underneath my skin as it is revealed. He's stoic while I strip. Only the appreciative glint in his eyes tells me I'm doing good as more articles of clothing fall on the floor.

"Enough," he croaks out as I'm hooking my thumbs in my boxers. I let out a careful breath of relief and return my hands at my sides. The sporadic gusts of wind coming from the open door are as much to blame for my goose bumps as the exposing situation is. If I'm trembling, it's from the cold and a particular fear. This, it's not the stage I imagine myself on. I keep imagining random eyes, strangers passing by, seeing this, _me_, in this position, naked, obedient in a way only we can understand. Not as exhilarating as I would have thought, or as he seems to see it.

I should tell him. But he stopped in time, after all, and now he doesn't leave me time to question what pushed him to be so exhibitionist. Of me, that is.

"Come," he says with a nod and I do, walking to his room. Our haven. My clothes remain in a trail in the hallway, he leaves them there after closing the door with a negligent push.

He doesn't say much, on the way or even once the door is closed and locked behind us. Unnerving. I don't dare turn around, and for once the balance of excitement and (fear? discomfort?) lack of control is not on point.

Deep breaths. I know him. Know this is what he needs, and ultimately what I need. I trust him, after all. So I stand strong, wait.

His next move is sudden, unexpected. Not especially original but still… Overwhelming.

Decided hands on my hips, forcing me forward until I have to lie down on his bed. He turns me on my back like a ragdoll and soon his body is shadowing mine, his mouth aiming for my neck and exploring it like a fascinating territory. Marking it as such too.

Sucking brutally, bringing the blood to the surface but never further. Each capillary bursting with a sting, sending a defined quiver to my stomach. His suction intensifies and widens and the pain blurs around the edges but never fades, not until my skin slips from his lips, regretfully.

He works me over for endless minutes, pauses for searing kisses but always return to experimenting on every inch of my throat and chest. The tender spot behind my ear, the tighter column of my jugular, the line of my jaw where he courses a teasing tongue, my pecs, my overly sensitive nipples. After a while I relinquish any hope to voice my concerns. They are melting, losing more relevance and urgency after each touch.

After what seems like hours, he stops. By then I'm merely a blubbering mess, skin thrumming, mouth slack and limbs boneless. He's unaffected, lying beside me, still fully clothed and calm.

I roll over, off the bed and stand in front of the mirror with shaky legs. I look like a scorched battlefield.

I run a finger on my skin, where the letters are far less discernible among the inflamed marks, test the sensitivity of some of them. Warm, slowly-spreading ache. It will become more acute soon, and last for days. It would be a pleasing thought, if it wasn't for the nagging uneasiness in the back of my mind.

I can hear the bedsprings squeak when he gets up, the cushioned sound of his steps behind me.

His hand sneaks back to my chest, his index pushing with intent on the largest budding bruise, under my collarbone.

"Yes," he whispers with a victorious smirk as I hiss. I'm not exactly sure from what, the sensation is vacillating between pleasure and pain. He's so satisfied, the bastard.

My head turns towards him, and even though my eyes, clouded by lingering contentment, and my lips, sated and full, can make his smile turn tender, I don't let them do so. Not for long at least.

"What are you doing, David?" I gesture towards my reflection in the mirror. "What is this… I don't even know what to call it."

I see him recoil, inside and out. There's instant guilt, instinct to take my words back but I squash it. If this is going to work, it will be on both our terms, and I should be free to speak up. I freed him but it wasn't to cage myself.

"I'm falling into this," he says softly. "Growing into it. Isn't… Isn't it what you wanted?"

His voice shakes slightly and his hands retreat, leaving cold doubt behind them. A twinge in my stomach makes me turn around, seek his touch again and my hands scramble up his arms, keep him close.

"Yes, David, it's what I want. I showed you that much." I bite my lip, look deep into his eyes. "But I guess I haven't told you enough, or the appropriate things."

He frowns and I automatically smile to comfort him, my fingers running over the wrinkles in his forehead to smooth them out.

"I still want you to lead," I whisper. "But this… relationship," I try the word out, let it roll off my tongue. It doesn't stick, and he doesn't seem to mind. A sly smile tugs at my lips. "I want it private. Undressing for the neighbors, not my cup of tea."

"Never would have pegged you for the ashamed kind, Kurt."

I can't pretend I don't hear the hurt behind the casual remark and it brings a stutter to my reply.

"It's-It's not a question of shame David. It's… protection. I want this safe, ours only."

_And you're nowhere near ready to put yourself out there_, but this part remains unspoken.

I stand uncertain, my words hanging in the air, awaiting acknowledgment while I can't breathe. Until his hold can be felt on my waist again, until his eyes regain the hungered fondness I love so much.

"Fine," he concedes in a hushed, yet light tone. "Just say game over, when it's too out there for you."

I can't help my squinting at this answer. "This isn't a game David."

"No, it isn't. But we're having fun anyway, aren't we."

His dark eyes say it's a statement, not a question.

"Yes, David."

"Good."

And I have a secret smile, because we might have found it. The right balance, the right tone.

I've known for a while that we are right, and while I didn't need additional proof, I welcome it anyway. With a kiss and another surrender, this time on clearer, more exciting terms.

I love being right.

* * *

><p>Junior Prom is where the first chip is made into the rock of our relationship. Perfect is fleeting, I discover.<p>

It starts off OK. We decided he would go with Santana, perpetuating the farce of a relationship they have. It's more for her than us. While we have found each other, she is still reeling from Brittany's rejection. Not that I'm becoming her friend, regardless of what she did for us (unknowingly), but I can relate to her situation. Hiding, protecting a secret like she is. We have each other, David and I, but Santana is alone. I can only feel sorry for her. She might be a bitch, but she is a bitch who is in pain.

For my part, I'm there with Mercedes, Sam, Rachel, the singles of the Glee club. It is fun at first. The simple, innocent pleasure of letting loose with my friends, of enjoying the silly performances, it is enough, but not for long. When the slower songs start playing and the couples form on the dance floor, I can't help feeling left out, flitting about around the dancers. That's when I catch sight of David. He is circling lazily on the floor, Santana's arms looped around his neck. Nothing to merit my attention at first glance, except he is staring at me. Hungrily.

I stop moving entirely, mesmerized. I understand the situation at once. He is blatantly taking advantage of everyone being too wrapped up with each other to notice him looking in my direction. More than just looking. Tempting me, with his unflinching, burning eyes.

I smile widely, leave my drink on the nearby table and hurriedly whisper an excuse to Mercedes, saying I have to go get some fresh air. Old, overused excuses always work on my friends, especially when they have no idea as to why I would need to lie.

I return my eyes to Dave. I know what I have to do. It is simple, like a second nature to me. That's what our relationship has grown to be. We don't plan it, nor is it even necessary. Words are just useless. All I have to do is to never break eye contact.

Luckily, I am already quite close to one of the side doors, so it isn't that awkward to exit the gym with side-steps, my eyes glued to his. My smile is turning into an overall sense of smugness. The one thing that never fails to provoke a… moment.

I watch, satisfied, as he escapes Santana's embrace, leaving her puzzled but unquestioning, and manoeuvres around everybody. We lose contact for a second, the time it takes for him to pass the heavy door after me. Quick, elastic steps on my part keep making me retreat further into the corridor. Frankly, I have no idea where I am going. I do enjoy leading him anyway. He is getting into it, smirking at my little bouncy steps. After a while though, he loses his smile. Since I am not giving him any chance to catch up, that my expression is only getting more and more teasing and that I'm starting to unbutton my shirt as I walk, I can absolutely understand it.

I accelerate, almost running backwards by then. He only gets angrier. Perfect. I keep it up, make him chase me for a good minute, daunting him by never looking elsewhere than directly at him. I am sure of one thing, I will not get away with it for long. Hopefully.

When he finally charges and propels me into an empty classroom, he makes me lose my breath but not my smile. It stays on, despite the seriousness of his face. I know it will end up playing at my advantage, pushing him. I feel like I can use his fury tonight. This evening has been far too proper and _nice_. Give me his wrath and its fallout over this modesty any day, and I'll make sure it's multiplied by the time it's unleashed.

"Game on." I mouth to him.

And just like that, I get it started again. There's the fleeting second of thrilling power, before I give it up, for impending greater pleasure.

He guides me to the wall next to the door, which he closes with an impatient hand before starting to undress me. He's incredibly fast and messy, yet precise. Not a rip in my shirt or my coat when he's shuffling them off my shoulders. The kilt I spent so much time on is not discarded carelessly, instead unbuttoned with care and removed. He plays with the material, stretches it to its full length.

"We can make something out of this," he says. I nod, even if I have no idea what he means.

He looks back at me, a renewed mirth in his expression. "Lift your arms, wrists together."

His demand is unequivocal and swiftly obeyed. The kilt is twisted, wrapped around my wrists and tied up, tight.

"Try to free yourself."

"I don't want to," I reply, and it's an admission that falls easily from my lips.

His eyes narrow and darken. My refusal hits him but more in pleasant surprise than anger, I can see it, and how he doesn't punish me for disobeying is another sign. He tugs roughly at my joined hands anyway but the knot is secure.

"Keep them up," is all he says before sliding his hands lower, to my shoulders, squeezing and lifting. It's a pang, sharp and deep and I gasp from the surprise. The pain doesn't feel as such and is more satisfying than unsettling.

The heel of his hands grinding my shoulders into the wall. So strong, keeping me so high. My feet are actually an inch above the ground, flailing to regain contact. It is a helpless position, a perfect one.

He leans forward, his mouth ends so close to my ear I feel his lips moving against the shell. "You think you can walk around this way without consequence? You think you get to decide when we're doing this? Well, let's see."

He pulls away and drops me; I do my best to wipe the smirk off my face, which I manage just in time.

"Better. You're not going to get what you want, I am," he mumbles, and his hands return to me. One is sliding between the wall and me, pulling me up and closer; the other is raising my thigh and guiding it over his hip. Enough for me to take the hint, I jump a little and wrap my legs around his waist, crossing my ankles behind his back.

He doesn't wait for me to get comfortable, snaps forward, a little to the side, and makes me connect with the door. A thud that reverberates through my body, ripples of shock that quiver everywhere.

"Remember when I slammed you into the lockers, back then, before all this? Every once in a while you'd whimper. Like this."

He pushes me harder and he's right, a cry comes out. I don't even have to force it, the sound leaves my mouth automatically. How could it not, when I feel my coat vest bundle around the handle that is pummeling new strange bruises on my back, hurting just the right way?

I love this, this illusion that he's the only one getting off, enjoying this.

"I remember. Couldn't help those, you had just the right angle sometimes," I breathe out.

"I wanted to. Wanted to rough you up, so good." He thrusts again and I can't find anything to add. He keeps on, his voice low and mesmerizing in my ear.

"Wanted to slam into you. So deep and strong you would have had to scream. Break through that self-control of yours, that fucking control you used to have, and make you scream."

I can't even groan or moan anymore. He pushes me roughly, my body hitting the door creating a continuous vibration that beats through my skin, again and again and again, until my brain turns to mush and all I can do is whine helplessly.

Trapped in my pants and against Dave's body, my cock is hard, over-stimulated, aching. I don't know what's more to blame for me being so close to the edge, so fast. It could be the random friction, the words he's saying, the unpredictable blasts of pain in my back. I can't figure it out. I don't want to figure it out. I don't need to know.

"Where's your control now, Kurt?" he asks, fingers digging in my shoulders, bringing me closer against him.

"Uh, you-you have it David," I pant out, the conditioned response coming out easily, more so since it's true.

"What would people say, if they could see precious Kurt Hummel like this?" he groans on my skin, teeth teasing.

"God…" I bang my head against the window pane behind me, in rhythm with Dave's thrusts. "They'd.. they'd say I'm yours, your thing, your… Just yours David. Yours. Fuck."

I can feel his smile more than see it, lips stretching on my neck, and it's all the agreement I need.

"Don't have time to fuck you. Wouldn't you like that though."

His fingers let go of my shoulders only to grasp desperately at my waist and bring me ever closer.

Amidst our pants and the thuds of my body hitting the door, a tiny voice pierces through in my head, and what it says chills me.

_They could hear you. Could see you, shatter this fantasy._

It's soon silenced, drowned out by David's heavy breathing in the hollow of my throat, and the hint of panic dissipates as well, brushed away by his hands sliding under my shirt and across my skin. The pleasure wins over the fear. He wins me over.

"I won't fuck you, but I'll make you come in your pants, like a kid who can't control himself. Because you can't, right?"

The vibrations of his speech last even longer than the echo of his words in my head. "N-No, I can't," I confess.

I'm at his mercy, dying to beg for more, for his hand to go lower instead of raking up my back.

He surprises me once again when he pounds me into the door, relentlessly. My own body does too when it arches and aches under precise thrusts and a grip that borders on excessive. The pain ripples through, intense, overwhelming, makes me gasp for air. It's more effective than anything I could have asked for.

I don't know what does it more, the growing numbness in my shoulders, the shoves or the determined, perfect way his erection presses against mine. I don't care, I surrender without a fight, gasp loudly and let the sensations wash over me and wring an almost painful orgasm from me.

He's seconds behind, his moves losing their aim and power as he shudders against me and fuses me into the wall with a final, desperate push.

He lifts his head slowly, a mere inch, enough to bring our mouths together for a couple of endless minutes. At least I wish they were endless, his kiss giving me breath and comfort the more I drown myself in it. Even if I would love to wrap my arms around his neck, trap him against me, I keep them high in the air like he ordered me to. I appreciate what I have enough, everything else is not mandatory.

Eventually he pulls away, cradles my waist with one hand. He rubs the pad of his thumb along my bottom lip. The pressure feels normal, no signs of swelling or proof of our escapade there. I breathe a sigh of relief.

"You don't look too abused," he says softly. "Guess I'll be the only one to know how wrecked you are. By me."

My lips stretch under his touch into a small smile. "You will. It's all for you to lov-like anyway," I reply, and my tongue darts out to wet the teasing digit.

His eyes flutter. "I… I'll go out first. You need more time to make yourself presentable," he says, releasing his hold and I slither down, wobbly legs barely supporting me.

"You can let your arms down," he tells me, finally.

I lower my joined hands that I can barely feel anymore. He studies my face and I make a point of giving nothing away. The worry builds in his eyes and I smirk as I untie the knot with my teeth.

Circulation returns to my fingers with a fiery tingle when I shake them and I let out a moan through pinched lips. It's just as pleasing to see him relax and smile back.

"You liked this then," he says.

I nod and unwrap the kilt, smoothing out the creases with stiff hands. "You could say that," I reply, "and it would be an understatement."

The blush on his cheeks and his smile feel like an achievement.

He takes a step back, straightens his jacket and shirt, runs his hand over his face. The necessary parade, getting ready to face the world outside ours. I look down to the wet spot on his pants with worry, he catches my stare and shrugs. "I'll fix it," he says softly.

He cups my chin, pulls my head back up and gazes into my eyes. Such intensity still lingers there, even as his thumb traces my cheekbone.

"Don't take too long," he whispers before dropping his hand and sliding behind me to open the door.

I'm left alone with my fading bliss and disastrous attire. Still, happy, and with more memories to treasure.

"I won't," I breathe out in the deserted room.

…..

It takes me more time than expected. Cum sticks to the fabric of my tights most annoyingly, and striking the balance between being clean enough to be comfortable and not looking like I've wet myself is tricky. Luckily my kilt didn't suffer much, and apart from a few wrinkles, covers seamlessly the damage Dave caused. The damage _we_ caused.

Back to the gymnasium, back to reality and to prying questions about my prolonged absence. I evade Mercedes with a reassuring smile, one that I struggle to keep from turning into a smirk when I see Dave a few feet away. If only they knew what has really delayed me… I can't help it, my thoughts drift to that reason and I savor each tiny aftershock my thoughts cause.

I fight the alluring memories and snap out of it just as Figgins announces David as the prom king.

The exclamations finish awakening me, I join them with applause I keep at the reasonable and indifferent level that is expected of me. I do let pride flash through me, to my eyes, but I keep it controlled. I risk just one lustful look when Dave's eyes rest briefly on me, along with a quick bite on my bottom lip. Where's the harm? His cheeks are already ridiculously red, I can't make it any worse, as much as I want to.

It's a nice moment, not perfect but nice enough. Dave is happy, smiling and brandishing his scepter like a kid, we had our moment and I can replay it in my mind. I can make that work, and enjoy the rest of the evening.

Or so I think.

"With an overwhelming amount of write-in votes is… Kurt Hummel."

Figgins' voice drops abruptly, just like my heart.

What was a cheerful, noisy room turns into a stunned space and a glacial silence absorbs every noise in the gymnasium. I stop my clapping, my hands falling down along with my smile and everyone turns my way. Did that really just happen? A write-in vote, me for Prom Queen?

Santana's horrified face is nothing compared to the one I must be wearing. Gone is the discreet elation, replaced by a mixture of emotions, anger and (_damn it_) fear standing out. It washes over me and takes up all the space inside me, uncontrollable, unstoppable.

No. It's a tide that I can stop. I know I can. I must. One breath at the time.

It's working on the outside, small comfort. I'm Kurt Hummel, trailblazer, confident, unshakable.

Yes, I show them all with my stance, with my impassibility. Inside… Inside is a different story. I am crumbling, frantically searching for the pieces of my pride. But they don't know it. I cover it all up. I hide.

It turns out to be good practice, showing one, having a secret one with Dave. It taught me to conceal, and I can stay strong as long as I keep it in, safe.

Step by step, I advance towards the stage, climb the few steps and manage a smile. _I can do it_. Somehow telling myself makes it real and I accept the crown with a quip and a smirk. Show them how unaffected I am with a tilt of the head and mirthful eyes.

Then again, it's easy when it's onstage, removed from the rest of them, Dave a secret support by my side. At least I imagine him to be.

_I have him, I have us. I'm his. Whatever they do, they can't take that away from me. I'm fine, because we're safe._

My smile falters, my inner monologue miss the mark when Figgins announces that we have to open the first dance. Eyes flickering to Dave, who has not even glanced my way so far, I find no answer there. He looks pointedly away, all serious and silent. No hint, no instruction, not a single word.

And I can't ask him. This is not our world, it's theirs. Here, we're enemies, and the only thing we have in common is this joke they're playing on us. I'm on my own.

We make our way to the dance floor. I am but of steel, shoulders squared, breathing shallow and fast, and my hands are balled up and straight by my side. After a couple of steps, I can feel his hand brush against mine. It's relaxed, almost searching for mine. I shoot him a look, shocked. He's glancing my way (finally), with somewhat hesitant but mostly hopeful eyes. He's not walking away or besides me, no, he's walking _with_ me.

It dawns on me that he actually means to dance with me.

He's going forward with this.

Hard-earned energy drains for me and fear takes its place. I'm not proud to say so, but I can't do this. Can't bring _us_ into the light and out of our secret place. How can I taint it by making it public and open to mockery, indiscretion and insult?

Because I know how it will look. I won't be able to dance with him without our whole dynamic showing through. There's no way I can be in his arms, so close, and not fold into my submissive self, begging for more. So soon after a "session", and when I'm barely holding myself together? There's no way I'll be able to control myself. They'll know.

Oh my God, they'll _know_. No, no way. This is just too important and precious. I'll protect it at all cost.

Our steps slow down as we near the center of the dance floor. He's turning to face me, he almost embraces me but I have to stop him. Now.

"I can't."

My voice is barely recognizable, rough and hesitant, but the flicker of confusion on his face is more about my words than my tone.

I don't think anyone besides him has heard me. It doesn't matter, as long as he understands.

Our eyes lock, I breathe the words out again.

"I can't."

God know it's not the kind of plea I want to offer him, but he has to hear it. Has to understand that… I can't. Not this, not now, not here.

He does get it. He's tragically understanding actually, with his quiet nod and how he backs away slowly.

My heart sinks and the taste of bile floods my mouth. I can't help but look at him with desperation. Sure enough tears are flooding in my eyes. It's just too much, too soon.

He's seeing this and yet he doesn't move. Fantastic. We're not even discovered yet, we haven't had to deal with any consequences yet and it's already getting ruined. I know it is, he's too serious and stoic. Closed off, lost to me. It's how it starts, one refusal.

Time slows down and while I can't take my eyes off of him, can't look away as it, _we_, crumble down, I'm not so lost as to not hear the building commotion around us.

Sniggers, getting louder, a few catcalls that multiply quickly. People laughing, whispering, taunting and teasing. It all floods my ears and my usual barrier is faltering. The tears are threatening to fall, one actually escapes and rolls down my cheek, cold and bitter on my skin.

Will the ridicule ever stop? Will they ever be satisfied, let go and move on from making fun of the gay kid? It's not even just that, it's everything, having him so close and yet so far, the stress, the downfall this evening just became, the fact that no one is sticking up for me, for us.

My breathing turns to restrained gasps, not the good kind, and I barely scrape up the courage to look up and meet his gaze. His face has changed, shows a concern that's unsettling. Only to me, because he stands with confidence.

He looks around, briefly, efficiently. I can't understand his resolve. How can he be so determined, and calm? He reaches out, with a hand that doesn't flinch or shake, and entwines our fingers.

"Trust me," he says, tugging until I'm almost melded against him. I can't resist, putty in his hands and follow his lead.

I look at him, so serious, suddenly so strong. Even if there were an order, a plea, and a question behind those words, there was little to no hesitation in his tone. In return I regain some composure, staring at him.

_Of course I trust you._ I want to say it, so badly.

It's the most obvious fact to me. I have given him everything, he's paid me back in kind, never let me down. I trust him, because ever since that first night at Rachel's party he's been my growth, my anchor and my fuel. We've had our misunderstandings, but I'll doubt everything and everyone before him.

I'm falling into him, his gaze that holds mine doesn't let me stray. The world around is tuned out, I don't notice the increased murmurs. How could I, when he is cupping my cheek and smiling? My world doesn't go further than this sight.

"I love you," he says, breaking the spell.

He doesn't whisper it. He says it openly. He might be staring at me, but he's talking to the whole room. It's more than a confession, it's an announcement.

"I love you, Kurt." It's even louder this time.

I'm still shaking inside, pinball emotions ricocheting in my brain, my heart in my throat, sweaty hands and unsteady breath. I should run, or slap him, yell at him that this is neither the time nor the place for such a declaration. But I don't and I'm glad to stay in place and say it back without words, just my eyes.

There's a minute pause, then he brings his other hand up, frames my face with warm and reassuring hands. When he kisses me without hesitation or doubt, it's an admission that rings louder than what he just said.

I'm shocked by how reflexive my response is, conditioned to the point of being instantaneous. He doesn't have to ask anymore, I obey. I _want_ to yield, give in to him, let him take over. And I'm showing it in front of everyone. _To_ everyone.

It's bad, it's terrible, terrifying. But what's worst of all is that I kiss him back, fully throwing my whole body into it, arms looped around his neck. I'm giving myself, all of me, to him, to us. Fuck caution, secrecy. I can't resist him.

Now I'm truly branded.

* * *

><p>AN: I'm aware that Kurt not choosing to use a safe word or any another clear way to control the situation with Dave (at first) is not safe or recommended behavior in a BDSM relationship. The lack of aftercare and the occasional miscommunication is done on purpose as well. It's all a conscious choice on my part, based on the fact that they are very young and are entering this type of relationship without really knowing the how-to or the risks.


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